Dépaysement
by hikiisavage
Summary: He had always felt like an outsider. A dark brooding soul struggling to survive, yet one touch from the boy made of marigolds had set his spirit ablaze. After years of wandering, Antonio finally found a place to call home. Frain/Spamano. Human AU.
1. Chapter 1: Dépaysement

**I haven't written a fanfiction in many years. Please let me know what you think of the first chapter.**

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Dépaysement**

/de.pɛ.iz.mɑ̃/

 _noun, m (plural dépaysements)_

 _1\. the feeling of being disoriented in a foreign country_

 _2\. exile_

* * *

A flat on the outskirts of the town looked out over the cobblestone streets where the two boys played. Laughter, roughhousing, and shouting, the neighbors found them obnoxious, but the spirit of youth they brought to the quiet neighborhood was still welcomed.

"You can never catch the awesome Prussian~," a young voice said, a distinct German accent was clear when he spoke French.

"Prussia isn't real!," another voice called out from further behind, this one rang out with a southern accent, a native.

The German boy with alabaster skin dug his heels in the ground with an abrupt stop, causing his friend to crash into his back, and both boys tumbled to the ground. Tangled limbs, scraped knees, and harsh insults were flung between the two, just another day in the sleepy suburbs of Marseille.

The two boys raced into the nearest flat, tracking mud indoors, but the kind blonde mother didn't scold the boys. She merely smiled and warned the boys to bathe before had their snacks, earning groans and protests. Although Marianne Bonnefoy was kind, she was assertive, not accepting no for an answer.

After their baths, the pre-teen boys spent the evening having dinner and chatting the evening away, sharing their books and stories with each others, somehow making hours dissolve into minutes. And those were the days in the happy lives the two boys, Francis Bonnefoy and Gilbert Beilschmidt.

* * *

"You're saying we can really find those kinds of videos there?," Gilbert asked in a whisper, yet his voice was shaking with anticipation, curious to find what Francis had described. Now at the age of fourteen, his cheeks felt flushed from both shame that his younger friend knew more about these things than he did, and from the hormones his growing body couldn't control.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure. My girlfriend's sister told me so," the French boy said with confidence, aged thirteen, although he too, couldn't deny the excitement he could feel, as he snuck through the city at dusk, beside his friend.

Standing by the DVD shop, they exchanged a glance before arguing who would be the one to enter the shop. Begrudgingly, Gilbert had been elected on the basis that he could feign a lack of French language skills and walk out of the shop without having to explain himself. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, Francis grew worried standing outside of the shop, wondering if something had happened to Gilbert. After 20 minutes, he was ready to enter to retrieve the other, when the German boy finally stepped out, and immediately, Francis smacked his arm without holding back.

"You idiot, why did you take so long?," he yelled, not even noticing that the other was holding a black plastic bag, indicating that their mission had succeeded. Despite the throbbing in his arm, however, the albino's grin didn't fade. Quickly, they stuffed their loot into the backpack they brought along, rattling with old pencils and markers at the bottom.

"Glad I was the one to go in," was all he said, cryptically, never answering the French boy's question, only furthering to irritate him, especially as he started walking away, leaving him to carry the bag.

"Gilbert! Wait! Tell me what was in there! What were you doing?," Francis demanded with burning curiosity, swinging the sack over his shoulder, leaning close to Gilbert as he tried to keep pace with his taller, longer limbed friend, yet the other just kept his smug grin, clearly satisfied that he knew something the other didn't. Not willing to beg any longer, the Francis crossed his arms in frustration and sealed his lips, not willing to succumb to his arrogant friend's taunts. The boys walked towards their home in silence as through the winding streets of Marseille, towards what they thought to be their homes.

"Fran? I don't think this looks familiar," Gilbert whispered cautiously, unconsciously walking closer to the petite boy, while Francis had been thinking the same thing a few minutes sooner, but had been fearful of mentioning it.

"Shit. I have no idea where we are," he finally said, stopping completely in his tracks, holding onto the hem of Gilbert's jacket, realizing the streets were far too quiet, far too dirty, and far too eerie to be safe here. A nervous chill ran through his spine, and he could tell that his friend too was scared.

Footsteps could be heard walking towards them from behind, and the boys didn't dare turn around, afraid of what could happen if they did. What they didn't expect however, was a shaky young voice to speak up.

"Are you guys lost?," he asked tentatively, his French had a thick accent, evident that he was an immigrant. Slowly, the two suburban boys turned around to take a look at the voice who spoke to them. The boy before them was shorter than the both of them, but he had to be about their age, maybe a year younger. What stood out, however, was his skin the color of ground cinnamon and green eyes shiny like sea glass. Shaken from their original stupor, the boys nodded after realizing this kid couldn't be a threat or so they thought.

Offering them a smile, the neighborhood boy felt protective over these two boys who clearly didn't belong in these parts of town. Had anyone else found them, they would have been in serious trouble. "You live out in the suburbs, right?," he asked in broken French, his cheeks flushed in embarrassment, having never spoken to such affluent people, wondering if they were judging him. He decided to keep his eyes to the ground and lead them out of the slums through the most neutral territories in silence, none of the boys daring to speak a word.

"Thank you, we really owe you one," Francis finally said when they reached a familiar part of town, looking at the boy gratefully, smiling in relief. Gilbert on the other hand remained silent until the blonde jabbed his side with his elbow. "Yeah, yeah, really owe you one, thanks," he groaned, rubbing the sore spot, trying to not to look weak in front of them.

Antonio felt his lips curl into a smile, but it wasn't out of his own volition, and he tore his eyes away from Francis' embarrassed by how deep, how innocent, and how blue they were. He didn't deserve to look at such eyes with his own filthy, tainted ones. He told himself that, but the smile that grew couldn't be willed away. "You're welcome," he said quietly, turning to leave the boys.

Soft, slender, fingers wrapped around his wrists like warm handcuffs preventing his escape. Warmth rose to his cheeks, and his breath caught in his throat. Sensations that were foreign, exciting, but unwelcome to the mysterious dark boy spread from his core down to the tips of his fingers. Unbeknownst to him, from that day on, Antonio was trapped.

"Wait," Francis found himself saying, unsure of what to say, once he had the boy's attention. Gilbert's red eyes scanned him with confusion, while Antonio looked at him with something akin to both fear and fascination. Momentarily stupefied, he quickly reoriented himself and whipped out a brick phone. "Give me your cell phone number!," he requested with quiet desperation, unsure why he suddenly felt the need to see this boy again.

With furrowed brows, Antonio couldn't help but laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of a child affording a cell phone. Unsure of what was so funny, Francis sought a comforting glance from Gilbert. "I don't have one," he finally said, after his laugh dissipated, shaking his head, assuaging Francis' self-doubts from earlier. Scrambling to find something in the bag on his shoulders, Francis seemed satisfied when he pulled out a permanent marker.

"Your arm?," he demanded, although the tone wasn't as harsh as the words could have been. Gilbert raised an eyebrow, seeming almost annoyed at being forgotten. Tapping his foot impatiently, he started tugging on the backpack the French boy wore, "Come on, Fran, it's really late already, maman is going to have our asses," he reminded, feeling uneasy around the dirty, strange kid. Looking pained between the new boy and his dear old friend, he pried himself free of Gilbert, looking desperately at Antonio, silently urging him to quickly do as he was asked. Hesitantly, Antonio raised his arm toward Francis, unsure of what he wanted, but the morbid curiosity eating away at him.

Moments later, the two boys were gone, and all the foreign boy could think about was the warmth he felt pooling inside him as he recited the numbers messily scrawled on his arm.

* * *

 **Chapter 2: Blé**

/ble/

 _noun, m (plural blés)_

 _1\. wheat, corn_

 _2\. (slang) dough, cash_

* * *

"My goodness, how could you have done this to me?," his mother cried, holding both boys in her arms, distressed equally at the thought of losing them both, growing to think of the German boy with no blood relation to her as a son.

"Sorry, maman," the chanted guiltily in perfect unison, unable to meet her glossy violet eyes, swollen from the tears she had shed all night. "Chouchou, we need to call your mutter," she sniffed trying to sound stern, failing before letting another sob of relief tear from her throat. Having torn the entire neighborhood searching for her troublemakers, she had prayed to every entity that they would return to her safely, knowing the German mother was equally worried. Gilbert's pale pink eyes, looked worriedly at the young woman, silently begging her for anything but that. Tutting at him, she shoved him towards the phone. "She has been calling me desperately, you must tell her you are safe."

Francis watched his friend mouthing words of encouragement as he heard the shouts of German on the other line. His friend responded in garbled words he couldn't understand, but he looked frightened and unhappy, and after a few moments handed the phone back to Maman. "She says I can stay here the night, but I'm grounded for the next month," he groaned, holding himself back from kicking anything in the Bonnefoy residence in frustration. After all, he couldn't show ingratitude to the people who always showed him such kindness, such mercy. Murmurs of sweet goodbyes from Marianne to Monika Beildschmidt, then she sent the boys upstairs, unable to bring herself to scold them, despite deserving it.

"Those boys are going to be the death of me," she quietly whispered to herself with a smile; inexplicable joy washed over her knowing that God hadn't stolen the other most important man in her life.

* * *

"Man, this better be worth it," Gilbert threatened, launching his body onto Francis' tidy bed, while he could only watch in horror, having told the other hundreds of times how he hated it when he crawled into his bed without showering. "You're dirty! Could you at least take off your shoes?," he scolded the other, already trying to pry off his muddy sneakers.

"Jesus, Fran, stop being such a priss," he snickered, kicking off his shoes to assuage the other's worries. "Hey, why did you write on that kid's arm?," he finally asked, surprised with himself that he managed to wait so long before asking. The question made the blonde pause. Unable to lie to Gilbert, he answered truthfully.

"My cellphone number," he responded succinctly as though it were the most obvious thing.

"Yeah, I saw that, but _why_?," Gilbert leaned over the edge of the bed, erotic DVD forgotten. "He seemed really weird, are you sure you want him just calling you? And he didn't even have a phone? How's he going to call you?," he fired questions, angry at his friend's recklessness. Usually he was the reckless one, but as the older one, he felt the need to watch over Francis this time, and something about the kid screamed danger.

"He seemed…," Francis paused for a second to consider his words. He didn't know much about the boy, except for that he had helped them, and he had an accent. It was somewhat European, but also not, at the same time. "...nice," he finished lamely unsure what to say to his friend. He couldn't explain why, but the boy had a je ne sais quoi that lured him in. "We should hang out with him," the blonde insisted, looking at his friend earnestly.

* * *

He murmured the numbers to himself again and again, Spanish and Arabic rolling off of his tongue far more easily than the jumbled mess that French was. Having memorized the digits, he still hadn't been able to bring up the nerve to actually dial them after two weeks had gone by. The blonde boy had been like a ray of sunshine, even in the flickering street pale kid, too, seemed like an ethereal angel, and Antonio felt hopelessly out of place when he walked beside to them. _A dirty mutt. No place next to them,_ he thought to himself in Spanish. Tossing and turning in his makeshift bed, he tried to calm his racing heart and scattered thoughts, which somehow always wandered back to that boy with the hair like golden wheat fields.

* * *

"H-Hello…," he stammered, feeling his previous determination suddenly wither away once the call was actually received. Now that all he had was his voice and broken French, he felt weaker and smaller than ever before, tempted to forget the numbers he had memorized, although he knew the task would be practically impossible. They had been burned into his mind like hot coals on styrofoam.

"Yes, this is Francis speaking?," a smooth and perfect southern French accent responded, and the sound made Antonio's face feel impossibly warm. Before he could speak, he slammed the public phone back onto the receiver, not even caring that he wasted another 5 euro cents on yet another failed call. On the other end of the line, Francis was frustrated. He knew that this was the boy from the slums, yet no matter how many times he tried to call the number back, all he would get is an error message. And soon, he found himself wandering back to the same spot with Gilbert following reluctantly.

"Fran, this is a terrible idea," he muttered for the umpteenth time that afternoon, grateful that the neighborhood wasn't as eerie in the sunlight, however, the graffiti and unkempt streets didn't do too much to soothe his worries."You do realize I'm supposed to be grounded, right?," he reminded, trying to convince the other to turn back around. "I just want to know why he keeps calling, Gil," he repeated, as though the line were rehearsed in his head countless times. Knowing that he couldn't dissuade his friend, Gilbert jammed his hands in his pockets and followed closely behind the French boy, afraid of what would happen if he let him slip beyond his grasp. Mutter was definitely not as scary as losing his Fran forever.

"What are you doing here?," a voice hissed at them, clearly upset at their presence, but Francis' eyes lit up, amazed at how surprisingly easy it had been to find him. The owner of the hiss, however, was not thrilled at all. Hair the color of wheat, and cheeks rosy like summer peaches, the face that haunted his thoughts the last few days suddenly materialized, and Antonio hadn't prepared at all. Ashamed that they saw him in the daylight, unable to use the cloak of night to shield himself from their unassuming eyes. Francis. He knew that name from his many phone greetings. _Francis. Francis Francis._ And here he was in the flesh.

"You called me!," Francis pointed an accusing finger at the boy, who he noticed was much younger than he appeared to be last time. The pained look in his eyes, however, gave pause to the blonde, "...what is it?," he tentatively asked, voice now just above a whisper.

"Please you have to leave," the boy begged, feeling responsible for the two older boys who seemed to loom over him. Despite their clear advantage in height and age, Antonio beat them in experience with the world he has seen. "Please…," he pleaded again, hands trembling, more afraid for them, than he was for himself. Francis however stood his ground, unafraid and determined.

"Then come with us," he demanded. Gilbert opened his mouth to protest, already against the idea, but his words went unheeded. Green and blue eyes clashed and out of desperation, the brunette gripped both Gilbert and Francis' wrist tighter than he intended to and began running from there, running far away from wherever _there_ even was.

* * *

 **Chapter 3: S'appeler**

/sa. ple/

 _verb_

 _1._ _to be called; to have the name of_

* * *

"Let go, damnit!," Gilbert finally tore his arm away from the shorter kid, equal parts impressed and annoyed by his strength. They had made it all the way to the suburbs of Marseille. Catching their breaths, Antonio looked over his shoulder, checking to make sure they hadn't been followed, and visibly relaxed, before finally turning his attention to the two boys. "What were you even doing there?," he shouted, the frustration from the last few weeks having built up inside of him. Frustration from his living situation, from the phone calls, from the Francis, from everything!

"Hang out with us," Francis said simply as though he casually mentioned the weather, crossing his arms across his chest, staring the foreign boy down. Both Gilbert and Antonio looked at him incredulously, unsure if they had heard him correctly. All of this for a new playmate? Yet, to feel wanted like this made the warm feeling Antonio had been suppressing, radiate from his core to the tips of his fingers, to his cheeks. Momentarily dumbfounded, he responded in Spanish, then quickly apologized in French for his mistake, "What are you talking about?," he asked, averting his earnest gaze.

"Yeah, Francis, what _are_ you talking about?," Gilbert cleared his throat, reminding the blonde of his disapproval. "This kid barely speaks French," he pointed, not even glancing at him. The harsh tone the albino used only served to irritate Antonio, however, and his warm feeling, was instantly replaced with a much colder attitude.

"Look who is talking. You are obviously not from here, either," he retorted, taking a step towards the German. Even if his grammar was better, and his words flowed better, the accent was strong when he spoke French. In fact, amongst the trio gathered, it seemed it was only the blonde who was a native. Antonio's fists tightened, and he did his best to contain his thinly veiled temper, knowing that if this wasn't a rich suburban boy, his hands would have been around his neck by now. Gilbert on the other hand, living his sheltered life had no idea what the other was capable of and kept pressing, despite Francis' pleads.

"Gilbert, leave him alone that's not why we're here!," the blonde tugged on his friend's arm, afraid of the argument escalating.

"Go back to where you came from, and leave Fran alone!," he threatened, and at those words, the snarling brunette snapped, pouncing on the albino like a starved animal. Punches and scratches were thrown from both ends, and Francis did his best to pull them apart, but he too ended up in the fray, throwing punches and kicks to both Gilbert and the mysterious boy. After tiring themselves out, they all laid out on the cobblestone streets.

"Francis," the blonde panted, turning his face slightly to the left to the foreign boy. "My name is Francis," he repeated, smiling at him as he stayed laying on the ground spread out comfortably soaking in the sun. Captivated by the sight, Antonio realized the other looked more like an angel than human. "I'm Gilbert!," a voice called from Francis' right.

The albino sprung up from his spot, grinning at the two boys, while Antonio sat up and glared, preparing for another fight. "Easy there kid. You'll beat the shit out of me if we fight again," he raised his hands in defeat, signalling a truce. "You definitely went easy on me, so you must be a good guy," the albino reasoned, albeit a bit reluctantly, averting his gaze, "So, uh, I guess you can hang out with us," he sighed, knowing that it was what Francis wanted, and when Francis wanted something, eventually he got it. Antonio relaxed his body, yet he kept an eye on Gilbert, still unsure of his intentions.

The blonde stood from his place and dusted himself off, throwing a look of gratitude towards his friend, mouthing a word of thanks. He turned to the foreign boy who was still sitting on the ground and offered a hand. "And what about you? What's your name?," he asked watching him expectantly, yet the foreign boy did not take the offered hand, choosing to stand on his own instead. A look of hurt crossed his features, and Antonio immediately regretted it. "Antonio," he mumbled quietly, looking down at his feet, frowning, sharing the information warily. Although the idea of befriending the boys was tempting, the thought scared him. Why would they want to hang out with someone like him?

Sensing the shift in mood, Gilbert threw his arms around both their shoulders and pulled them in for a hug, grinning widely. Francis scooted closer, used to his friend's affection, while Antonio squirmed, trying to get as far away as possible, but Gilbert's grip was firm. "Gil, Fran, and Toni," he said with a satisfied sigh, "We're gonna fuck shit up," he promised, and that was the start of the boys' friendship.


	2. Chapter 2: Sympathie

**So from now on, I will primarily write from Antonio's perspective of things, unless stated otherwise.**

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Sympathie**

/sɛ̃. pa. ti/

 _noun, f (plural sympathies)_

 _1\. feelings of pity and sorrow for someone's misfortune_

 _2\. understanding between people; common feeling_

* * *

"Come on Toni it'll be fun," Gilbert tugged on the brunette's shirt, practically begging the man to tag along with them. Sitting at a table were the three inseparable boys, or now young men, and some of their closest friends, having a good time at one of the local restaurants. Their group was a diverse mix of people. Marseille, nicknamed as the city of immigrants, had seen people from all over Europe and even some from Africa and the Middle East. Even with all of the friends' mingling accents, their spirit of camaraderie knew no national borders.

"Gilbert, if Antonio doesn't want to join us, do not force him to," Roderich, one of their group's newest additions, chided coolly, not even sparing a glance at the albino. Antonio never quite understood the aloof man, or why he spent so much time with the boisterous group, but he felt comforted by his presence. Austrian, he was. Roderich. The mellow attitude helped him center himself when the others became rowdy, which these days, was quite frequently. Sending him a grateful smile, Antonio was saved yet again from an expensive night of drinking, no matter how badly actually _did_ want to go. It was for the best, alcohol always did bring out the worst in him.

Around him, they chatted about classes and coursework, and although he never admitted it, those conversations pained him. Having dropped out of high school to continue working to make ends meet, he knew that university was definitely out of the question for someone like him: an idiot, failure, a walking disaster. Being one to shoulder his own burdens, he had never told his friends about his struggles, not even Gil and Fran. Although they worried about him, the two understood that the more they pressed Antonio, the more he shut himself back in, so it was almost an unspoken agreement between the three to never question or prod.

The ring of his cell phone pulled him away from his thoughts, and the young man excused himself, unnoticed except by Francis to whom he mouthed, 'I have to go.'

Stepping out onto the streets, Antonio could barely suppress a shiver as he zipped up his thin worn out jacket, as he walked towards the slums of Marseille where he had lived for the past fifteen years. With his thoughts floating back to the day's events, he felt guilty for rejecting Gilbert's invitation, but drinking with them meant spending money that he didn't have. Money he could have used to feed himself and keep a roof over his head. Francis and Gilbert knew Antonio didn't come from money. After all, he was an immigrant living in the ghettos of Marseille, it didn't take much to figure out that he was poor. However, he always did his best to assure him it was never too bad, for if they knew the truth, they would constantly force charity on him.

 _Francis and Gilbert._

 _Francis._

Almost involuntarily, the name brings a warmth in his heart that even the freshly fallen snow seems melt away. _Had he not forced his way into my life seven years ago…_ , shaking his head, Antonio couldn't even finish the thought. Thanks to Francis, he met Gilbert, Ludwig, and Roderich, and Alfred, and many other wonderful friends. Yet, this love that he felt for them, he felt that he didn't belong in that world even after all of those years. The longer he spent with them the more he realized that he was far too different from them, yet the loneliness that plagued his heart still demanded him to selfishly seek them out time and time again.

Becoming almost too used to the action, he reached for his silver cross and murmured a prayer in Spanish, and then released the cross to murmur another prayer in Arabic, hoping that with the two forces, somehow they'd synergize into something powerful enough to dispel his avarice.

After walking for what felt like hours in the cold, the familiar surroundings of worn out buildings, overturned garbage cans, and graffiti lined the streets. _Home_.

"There you are, idiot. Took you long enough," a young man called out from behind, with also accented French, and though the words were harsh, they held no malice. He turned around, and again he found himself smiling, looking at the smaller man adoringly. Antonio always had mixed feelings about having Lovino around; for one thing, he had been his everything for as long as he's been in France: his family, his brother, his best friend, and his presence had brought him a comfort and joy his soul craved more than anything. Yet, it pained him to have his precious Lovino experience the ugliness these streets were capable of, and that's why Antonio always did his best to remain patient and kind with him.

"Lovi, I'm here, what did you need?," he asked with a warm smile, watching as his cheeks turned rosy in the cool weather.

"Feli's staying with the potato bastard again…," his voice started angry, but then it trailed off, and he turned his eyes from Antonio's ernest green eyes.

"I'll keep you company," he said softly, not looking away from him, even if the fiery Italian wouldn't meet his gaze, his smile never fading for a moment. Inching closer to share body heat, Lovino glared in protest, but made no attempt to move away, secretly cherishing every accidental brush of their hands, yet the cool gold cross on his chest felt like a heavy, chilling weight: a reminder of the boundaries he must keep. Silently the two walked in synchronization towards home.

"I can't believe you're still scared to sleep alone," he teased, to break the heavy silence, lightening the mood, and although the petite man punched his shoulder, he was grateful for the distraction. "Shut up, it's only because they turned off the heating!," he defended.

"Oh, yeah, mine too was shut off a few days ago."

"Bastard, just fucking move in already," Lovino groaned as though they've had this conversation countless times. "...we'll both save money. It'll help both of us," he rationalized, just stopping short of pleading. Truthfully, it worried him how Antonio isolated himself so much, and a selfish part of him wanted the man all to himself at all times.

Grinning suggestively, Antonio leaned towards Lovino playfully, who took a step back, cheeks flushed red from what Antonio assumed to be the bitingly cold air, "Does that mean we'll snuggle together every night?," he joked with Lovino, amused by how jumpy he always got when he made passes at him.

"Dumbass."

"I'm your dumbass."

" _Do you have the key?,_ " Lovino huffed, embarrassed, speaking quickly in Italian, crossing his arms across his chest when they reached the shoddy worn down apartment, stuffing his frozen fingertips under his arms.

" _Yes, just a moment,"_ a response in Spanish. The similarities between their native tongues had allowed them to communicate all of these years without the tattered bridge of French they were forced to use with the rest of the world. Sometimes, however, the bond the two shared transcended words, and a look between them was all they needed to communicate. Perhaps that was why they always understood each other, understood each others trials and tribulations, understood each others loneliness and joy.

Making their way into the small apartment, the two men left their coats on, for it was barely warmer inside than it was outside. After a warm meal of mostly bread and rice, the two men despite the misfortunes that life has forced upon them, spent the evening laughing and keeping each other sane in this wearisome world.

* * *

"Please, Antoine, let me pay for you."

"Francis, I said fuck off!," he shouted, unable to contain his temper any longer, loathing the pity the French man looked at him with. Even more so, he absolutely _hated_ when he called him _that_ , erasing who he was and where he came from, as though the godforsaken country hadn't already beaten it out of him. "And for the hundredth time, my name is _Antonio,_ "he emphasized his Spanish accent, green eyes burning angrily up at the French man's peaceful blue ones. They held no malice, only pity, and that only served to infuriate him even more. Raising his fist to strike that pretty face, blinded by his fury, he felt hands on him coming from all directions, calls for him to "chill out man," from all of his friends.

They saw him as the charity case. Poor Antonio can never do anything with us. Poor Antonio is always working late. Poor Antonio this. Poor Antonio that. Most of all, it hurt when Francis looked at him with those eyes. Francis who was supposed to understand him better than any of the other guys. With an extraordinary amount of force, he ripped himself free of Gilbert and Alfred's grip and turned with a scowl on his face, not even caring that he broke his facade around the others

Kicking a crushed beer can down the streets, Antonio couldn't help but groan in anger, angry curses in Arabic spilling from his tongue, trying to keep from doing anything stupid or self destructive, as Lovino would always warn him. _Cursing is good for you. It lets the bad energy out._ He heard his best friend's voice ringing through his head, but the voice that interrupted him was definitely not the Italian's.

"I didn't know you were an Arab," a quiet voice spoke to him, barely above a whisper. Had anyone else been on the street, he may have not even heard him. Roderich. Pretty Roderich. Dainty Roderich. All the guys mocked him for it, but the Austrian man seemed to take the comments as praise. It was rather difficult to make him lose his composure, and in the year of knowing Roderich, Antonio couldn't even recall a time when he wasn't in control of a situation.

"A-Ah… yeah, I guess I don't talk about myself too much," he muttered back in French, averting his gaze from Roderich's soft violet eyes; he couldn't bear to be showered in more pity. Embarrassed to be caught after that outburst, he couldn't really bring himself to say anything else, so he opted for silence.

"It's a beautiful language, Arabic, I mean"

"Thank you," he found himself replying, although he wasn't sure if it was the appropriate response.

The silence between them wasn't particularly awkward, however, it left Antonio suspicious. Why had Roderich come after him?

"I'll see you around," he finally said, glancing over at him, adjusting his glasses.

Raising an eyebrow, Antonio simply waved at him, finally meeting his eyes, releasing a breath of relief he hadn't realized he had been holding the entire time. There wasn't any pity.

* * *

 **Chapter 5: Se surmener**

/sɛ̃. sur. mə. ne/

 _verb_

 _1\. to overwork_

* * *

"I said I was sorry, Antonio"

"Just leave me alone, Francis," he sighed into the receiver. It would have been easier if he had simply ignored the call, but for some reason, it felt too cruel doing that to the other.

Two days had passed since the incident at the cafe with all of their friends, and the guilt he felt from raising his fist at Francis weighed down on him.

At the same time, his blood boiled at the thought of Francis or Gilbert looking down at him, flaunting their affluence. Still though, every time Francis called, he answered.

"You have to understand, we just want to spend time with you"

"I know"

"Then why must you be so upset"

"Fran…"

"Toni, I'm sorry, but if this is the only way that I can spend time with you, then I will keep offering," his tone grew firmer. On the other end of the line, Antonio clutched the cell phone more tightly, frustrated at the charity. Why couldn't he see that he didn't need their help? Did it really matter whether or not he was there for every gathering? Was his presence even missed? It seemed like every time he joined them all he could think about was how he didn't belong and lately the rift between them just felt wider and wider.

"I have to get back to work."

"Wait, To-"

And with that he hung up the phone, ready to return to work. One of his part time jobs was working at a supermarket, stocking shelves, and cleaning aisles. The pay wasn't particularly great, but the hours were steady and it was his only stable source of income.

"Are you alright?," Lovino asked, entering the staff room to start his own break. "Oh, you're done with yours, now?"

Looking up from his phone, mildly surprised to see the other. He swore Lovino's break started in another 15 minutes. "Yeah, I'm fine, it was just Francis, again. I'll wait for you when I get off."

"Tono," he began, his tone unusually soft, yet he was unable to look directly at him. "You can tell me anything, remember that."

Smiling, Antonio nodded, "I know, Lovi, don't worry about me," he said cheerfully, giving the other a slight wave as he headed back out.

He tried to not look worried, and returned the wave, muttering to himself, "Idiot…m'not worried"

After their shifts, Antonio walked Lovino home. Even after all of the arguments, Antonio insisted that he'd stay in his own home alone for the evening.

"I really wish you'd actually consider moving in, dumbass"

"How would Feliciano feel about it if I did?"

He shouldn't have asked that. That was only giving Lovino false hope, but the shift in his typical frowning demeanor tugged on his heart strings. It was the subtlest of smiles, and maybe a perfect stranger wouldn't have noticed a thing, but after all these years, always watching for Lovino out of the corner of his eye it would have been impossible to miss.

"Are you kidding? He'd fucking shit himself...in a good way," he tried his hardest to keep the excitement out of his voice, but he knew he already fucked up. Antonio heard it and the thought made his cheeks redden. "This is a good thing, you know," he added hastily, trying to will away the color on his cheeks, but God he was just so happy to have Antonio close, "Because of bills and shit."

"I'll think about it," Antonio responded, trying to keep a smile on his face, it being painfully clear just how uneasy the idea made him. This didn't go unnoticed by Lovino who's excitement fell almost as quickly as it rose.

And the guilt he felt came crashing on him like a wave, "Don't force yourself, I just thoug-"

"No, I'm not forcing myself!" Antonio hastily defended, but it was too late. He knew that moving in with the boys would help them financially, but there was so much to him he couldn't bear to burden them with. They needed to focus on each other, but Antonio knew if he said that Lovino would keep pressing, insisting that it didn't matter.

"Don't fucking lie to me. I'm not stupid!" His tone was defeated, the hot tears prickling at his eyes. Was living with him really that much of a nightmare? The Italian had let his walls down for Antonio, the only person in his life he did that for other than his dear brother, yet at that moment the man in front of him felt like he was impossibly far away out of reach. He really didn't know anything about Antonio and that frustration suddenly bubbled out of him all at once. What the hell was he thinking about all the time?

"Lovino…," his voice was gentle, trying to console him. Where had this outburst come from? The urge to pull him in tightly in an embrace washed over him. Would he protest? At his side, fingers twitched from either the cold or his thoughts.

"If the thought of living with us sounds so fucking miserable then sorry for suggesting it. I'll never bring it up again. Happy?," There was anger, resentment, and disappointment in that final look he gave his dear friend. Antonio hated seeing Lovino like this, but his resolve didn't crumble. And with that he stormed off ahead, leaving Antonio behind.

He stood there for a few minutes, contemplating whether or not to call out to him, but Antonio opted for inaction. Antonio always chose omission. After Lovino had ran into the distance, he too was spurred into movement, walking towards his own apartment building.

Antonio grabbed the mail and opened the door to the apartment, but when he tried to flick on the lights, the room remained dark.

Calling out in frustration to no one in particular, he cried, "Fucking great" and tossed aside the bills and letters, postponing them for tomorrow. In the dark apartment, it would have been impossible to try and read them anyway.

Antonio threw himself on the old worn out bed, leaving his jacket on to combat the chill of the night. Pulling out his phone, he checked through his messages and missed calls. Francis. Gilbert. Francis. Feliciano?

Lovino must have looked upset when he got home. Deciding that it'd be better to deal with the issue right away, he dialed the number, and a cheery voice answered.

"Tono, how are you?," Feliciano said happily. It had been far too long since he had actually spoken to the boy.

"I'm doing well, Feli. How's school? Keeping your grades up?"

"Yes, of course! I want to make you and brother proud…," and at the mention of his brother, his tone grew sadder, "you had the last shift together, right? What happened?"

"Sorry. I made Lovi upset"

"Tono... I'm sure you didn't mean to…"

"Can you make sure he eats something?"

"What about you? Have you eaten dinner yet?"

"Yes," he lied, staring up at his dark ceiling laying on the bed. There was no need to worry the two boys. They needed to worry about themselves first.

"Good~," his tone perked up, "I promise I'll make sure brother takes care of himself," he assured Antonio, and the Spaniard actually felt a little relieved and chuckled at the boy's energy.

Before hanging up, he added in a gentle voice, "You know I love you boys, right? Can you please remind Lovi that I love him?"

"Of course, Tono. We love you, too," the young Italian added, and Antonio smiled fondly, slowly closing his eyes.

"Have a good night, and rest up, you have school tomorrow!," he scolded, although his tone was light and playful. Feliciano had the potential to escape this cycle of poverty, and both Antonio and Lovino wanted it more than anything for him.

"You should rest too," he added softly and ended the call. Sometimes, Antonio hated it how the bubbly Feliciano sounded so much older than he was, but their circumstances had aged them far faster than they should have.

Taking the boy's advice, without power, and without much food in the house, Antonio closed his eyes and waited for the next day to come, wondering to himself why he even bothered to keep living like this: aimless, penniless, hopeless.

The days continued, while Lovino and Antonio shared only a few words in passing at the supermarket. Every attempt to explain himself was shut down with the Italian's harsh glares and profanities, insisting that, nothing was fucking wrong, idiot. Feliciano assured him that Lovino would get over it soon, just to be patient. It seemed that just waiting around was really all Antonio ever did in his life.

Another normal shift ended and after days of getting snubbed by Lovino, he decided to just head straight home, emotionally exhausted from all the attempts to ameliorate the situation. He was overreacting, Antonio assured himself, snow slush crunching beneath his feet as he walked toward his flat. Familiar graffiti scrawled throughout the dirtied apartment buildings indicated his arrival home, debating to himself the significance of that word. Home. Was this really home?

After four or five flicks to the light switch, he was reminded that the power had gone out a little over a week ago. Thankfully there was still some daylight, so preparing for his second job wouldn't be too much of a hassle. The flat was mostly bare save for a few chipped dishes in the cupboard, some old chairs and a table, and worn out sofa with some of the stuffing pouring out. It took nearly all of his income to maintain this shithole, and for what? What was the point?

A momentary eruption of frustration flared through him as punched the nearest, and ugly grunt involuntarily escaping. His phone was buzzing and ringing angrily on the coffee table, almost mocking him for his outburst.

Gilbert's constant flooding of memes in their group chat only served to irritate Antonio, determined to push everyone out of his life. Muted. Francis' calls were directed straight to voicemail. He seriously debated smashing the damn thing against the wall, but it would cost money that he didn't have to replace.

Dressing in his only nice clothes, a simple buttoned shirt and fitted jeans, Antonio gave himself a once over before it was too dark in his apartment to see how he looked. Running both hands through his messy curly locks, he grinned into the mirror, ready to kiss the devilishly handsome green-eyed fool staring back at him.

It was a quarter to seven by the time he made it to the strip club, his second part time job. No, he wasn't a stripper. He was merely a bartender there, but that doesn't mean his tips weren't just as good as any of the ladies dancing up there. Not that Antonio was particularly interested in men, but for a good price, he didn't mind flirting and letting himself get ogled for a bit as he made some drinks. After all, it's not like he was going home with them.

The cool silver cross against his chest hidden beneath the crisp white dress shirt shielded him against sin-or at least that's what he told himself.

And as he was cleaning down the bar to prepare for the first shift, the temperature behind him dropped several degrees; the signal of a dark presence looming.

"Hello, Antonio," his boss purred behind him, standing far closer than he was comfortable with. Nevertheless, he turned and plastered his practiced cheerful smile-tips were way better if you were fun and approachable-and greeted the leering Russian man as pleasantly as he could, but truthfully every interaction with the man made his skin crawl. This man was the embodiment of everything Antonio hated: affluence, entitlement, arrogance. It made him sick.

Ivan Braginsky. Like many of the people here in Marseille, he was also an immigrant, but he wasn't like the poor broken immigrants that stumble through the borders of France. He had power and influence. The Russian Mafia's network is as deep as it is wide, and it was an unspoken agreement between all of the employees to never bring up their boss' less than halal negotiations.

"Mr. Braginsky, how are you doing?" His voice was strained, but the monotonous thumping of the music drowned it away, or perhaps Ivan was just blissfully feigning ignorance to his discomfort. Antonio was almost certain it was the latter.

As his boss' eyes scanned him hungrily, like an animal approaching his prey, Antonio did his best to focus on the orders coming in. He was used to it: balancing the harrassment from Ivan with the responsibilities of the job. "I have a few special guests coming in tonight. I hope you will serve them well," he began, but as he leaned closer the scent of vodka and cigarettes wafted through the air. So that's why. Ivan didn't get this forward unless he was drinking. Doing his best to keep the discomfort off of his face, he let his boss rest a hand on his hip as he towered behind him. The Russian man bent down to Antonio's height to whisper in his ear, "Of course I will make sure you are adequately compensated for a job well done."

He shuddered. Gross. Antonio didn't need to see his face; he could practically hear the smirk in Ivan's voice. Hopefully, compensation wasn't a euphemism-he could really use the extra money. "Yes, Mr. Braginsky," the smile never left his face and clearly Ivan was pleased.

The hand on his hip trailed lower and further behind him until it rested on his ass. The shame inside him burned almost as hotly as his face did. "Good, now get back to work." And the Russian man disappeared almost as suddenly as he appeared. Swallowing hard and doing his best to block out the memory, he dove headfirst into work.

"Hello, sir can I get you anything?"

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 **Sorry for how long it took to update. Please share, review. From now on the chapters will be longer.**

 **Best,**

 **Kii**


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